


As Your Shadow Grows Over Me

by DarkPilot



Series: A Light Long Forgotten [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst and Feels, Drinking to Cope, Friendship, Gen, Poe Dameron Needs A Hug, Poe finds out, Pre-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Star Wars: The Last Jedi Spoilers, implied depression, letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 18:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13277595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkPilot/pseuds/DarkPilot
Summary: The only thing Poe Dameron left behind was a collection of letters to Ben Solo. (Sequel to While I Lived in Your Shadow)Spoilers for The Last Jedi ahead. Please proceed with caution.





	As Your Shadow Grows Over Me

Dear Ben,

I don't really know how to start this letter, either. I don't think I could have ever imagined that this sort of day would come. I didn't ever want to. I still don't.

I'm going to be honest with you, like you were with me. I don't know how to write this. I mean, you'll never get to read it now, so I guess this is more just an act of closure for myself, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't know what to say.

Your letter was still sealed when I got it, so I know I'm the only one who's seen it. I keep it folded in this new inside pocket I sewed into my jacket, that way no one else can find it. You said that you hoped no one else but me would ever read it, and I'm doing my best to make sure that happens.

Force, it's still too soon. I don't think I can make myself write much more. It's three in the morning, and I can't think.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

You know, even though you gave me reasons why you left, I still can't understand why you're gone. I mean, I _know_ why, I just can't seem to make all these pieces fit together in my head. Granted, I don't know much about the Force and all this Jedi stuff you do, but I'm reading your letter again and again to try and understand it. Maybe it was just easier for you to write to someone who didn't have any part in what happened.

About Luke . . .

He came by again this morning and told us what happened. I say us – I'm staying with your parents for a little bit. Your mom asked me to. I hope that's okay.

Actually, that's not okay. Even if it might have been okay with you, it's not okay with me. Your parents don't love me more than you – that's crazy! And how in the galaxy could you possibly think I'm replacing you? There's only one Ben Solo in the galaxy, and he's gone, and he's left a giant hole in all our hearts that I couldn't possibly begin to fill.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I realize that I might have ended my last letter a bit abruptly. I'm sorry. I just started thinking too much, and then I got angry, and then – well, you probably wouldn't want to hear any excuses. Here they are, anyway:

1) I get distracted a lot, mostly when I think.  
2) I've been doing a lot of thinking lately.  
3) Most of my thinking has made me either really pissed or really crazy  
4) Getting really pissed or really crazy can get a bit distracting.

Anyway, I'm just going to pick up where I left off before I started ranting.

Luke came by yesterday morning. It's been a few days since he delivered the bad news and the lightsaber, and he decided to tell us "the whole story" yesterday. I'm trying not to be bitter, but I still have a lot of mixed feelings about him. After all, if it weren't for him, you might still be around.

Anyway, his story was a little different from yours. I say "a little". The biggest difference was the fact that he kept trying to passive-aggressively say that you had brought everything down on yourself and now he was all alone and we should feel sorry for him, but you didn't. I could see it in his eyes – he wasn't telling us what really happened. I could have slapped him. I swear I almost did. He had some nerve standing in his sister's house after he tried to kill her son.

I wanted to stand up and yell the truth in his face. Maybe if I was braver, I might have. Maybe if it wasn't so obvious no one believed a word of what he was saying, I might have. Maybe if it didn't mean bringing up your letter in front of everyone, I might have.

I don't know, Ben. Things are too different now that you're gone. It's like I'm twelve years old again, and I can't stay around for the "grown-up" chatter. I'm twenty-nine! It wouldn't hurt for someone around here to acknowledge that, would it?

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I keep writing to you as if it might help something. It really doesn't. I'm sort of drunk right now, and I'm just going to let you know that it doesn't feel good. Maybe I'm drinking the wrong stuff. I'm on my third bottle of Corellian whiskey. Your dad brought some over. I ended up drinking most of it.

Your dad said that whiskey's an honest drink – it's supposed to bring out the truest, honestest parts of a person. Honestest. Stang, that's not even a word. I guess deep down, I'm a pathetic self-deprecating, depressed loser who makes up stupid words like "honestest" to make himself feel better while he writes letters to a ghost.

This is the first time I've gotten drunk, like _really, really, I-might-pass-out-at-any-second_ drunk. Light shots with my squadmates don't count. Unless you have the alcohol tolerance of Snap Wexley, in which case you'll pass out after two.

Have I told you I'm on leave right now? I'm taking a couple weeks off. Antilles is sympathetic to the situation, and he's sent me home. He says that I can come back when my heart is in the same place my head is. Whatever that means.

My head really hurts right now, but I can't seem to stop drinking. I like the way the whiskey tastes, like it burns its way down your throat and goes through your stomach to your blood and just simmers there and then your heart just pumps that blood all over your body and you can feel the whiskey burn everywhere – your toes, your fingers, your cheekbones – I mean _everywhere_.

You know, for all the whiskey that's burning me up right now, I'm awfully cold. Maybe it's just because you're not here anymore. I know we didn't get to know each other that well, but we knew each other a bit. The winter seems colder on Yavin IV without you.

I think I would have liked being brothers.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you where are you

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Your parents split today. I don't want to talk about it much, but you should know. There was more blame than love going on, and when you have a certain amount of blame living inside of you, you just feel like you need to put it somewhere else. The problem is, when you want to blame someone that has too much of it already living inside of them. Your mom tried to put it on your dad, and you dad tried to put it on your mom. There was some yelling, some crying, but nobody got hurt. I mean, nobody got physically hurt.

Your father left only a few minutes ago. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Chewbacca's gone with him, too, so now it's just me and your mom, but I get the feeling I'm not much help anymore.

Damn it, Ben, how could you think I could ever take your place in this household? You kept your parents together. I couldn't. All that blame living in this house, between these walls, and no one ever tried to put any on me. Maybe if someone had, things would be different.

Ben, please come back. I need you.

We all do.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

Have you found what you're looking for yet? Is the darkness gone? Has the Supreme Leader told you what to do about it yet? Are you doing better? Do you know I'm still writing to you? Where have you gone? When will you come home? What else can I do to bring you back? DO you even care about us anymore? Did you ever love any of us? Do you know how bad things are right now?

Do you know how much I miss you?

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I think I've just about memorized your letter now. I don't know why, but lately, I can't seem to stop reading it. I've memorized your handwriting, the way you loop the ends of your y's and g's into the next letter, how your e's are just slightly slanted to the right, the way you slip into cursive more and more towards the end . . . I close my eyes at night, and all I can see is this page of words you've given me.

One thousand four hundred sixty-seven words, Ben. 1,467. I counted them all. 1,467 words and a lightsaber are all you left for me. And now, these 1,467 words are all I have left of you. I gave your lightsaber to one of your father's old friends for safekeeping. I just feel like she'd take better care of it than I ever could. Also, I just couldn't get past this crazy feeling about wanting to take that lightsaber and just turn it on right as I'm staring down into it. I've only ever turned it on once, and it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. I put my hand up right by the blade, and I felt no heat, but my palm burned anyway. The scar's still there, on my left hand.

The war's become so terrible, Ben. I'm almost glad you're far from it – I wouldn't want you to see what we've become. It's gotten to the point where even those of us in the fleet receive extra ground and water training. Some of the guys complain. It's blasters and PT and flying and fighting and swimming every hour, day in and day out. I don't mind as much. It gives me a good break from all this thinking that my brain tries to do – it's hard to think yourself crazy when you're focusing on your twentieth-lap breathing or the rhythm of your cadence.

Right now, I'm stationed at an outpost on one of Mon Calamari's moons. Admiral Ackbar's overseeing the construction of some new ships on his home planet, and we're right next door in the First Order ever decides to show their faces. I still can't imagine why the Republic refuses to acknowledge them as a threat. Some part of me wonders if the First Order hasn't already taken the Senate, but I know that's not my field.

I don't think I've ever told you much about what I do now. I'm part of the Resistance, which is basically a response militia that your mom and some of the Rebellion veterans formed in response to the First Order. Basically, they're a bunch of Empire worshippers that go around causing trouble for everyone. The Republic has the resources to deal with them, but for some reason, they aren't. So instead, we the Resistance get to play galaxy police. It's tiring, but I try to make myself see that it's worth it.

I love the moon I'm stationed on. There's water almost everywhere, and sometimes, I like to go swimming at night. It's relatively safe, as far as I know, and no one's told me that I can't. Besides, some people run. I just like to swim better. Of course, nothing compares to flying, but humans can't exactly fly on their own.

I've been promoted. I'm a major now. Major Dameron. It doesn't really roll off the tongue quite right. I'm either going to have to work my way up or get myself demoted. I think I liked being a captain best. I was responsible for people then, but I was mostly responsible for myself. Too many people's lives depend on a major, far more on a colonel, and an impossible amount on a commander.

I just hope that's never me.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I just want to let you know that I say here staring at this piece of paper for about an hour before I could bring myself to write this sentence.

The past few weeks have been a blur. So many people die so fast and leave their ranks empty. The Resistance needs leaders, but we don't have the personnel. It's gotten to the point where we could almost just play sabacc for ranks and no one would care. I care, though. I guess that's what made me a good choice to your mother for a Fleet Commander. I don't know if I can get used to this title. It feels heavy and dangerous, like I always have to keep pushing forward to keep it. I've decided that people shouldn't have to call me "sir". Most of them are older than me, anyway. It wouldn't feel right.

Your mother also decided to tell me a choice bit of information this morning that apparently all of her "most trusted officers" know . . .

I don't believe her. It's not true. It can't possibly be true. If you were here, I'd ask you, just to make sure, but you're not, so I can't, and now I'm just stuck here refusing to believe this _thing._

Maybe the you I remember isn't the you you used to be. Maybe I've romanticized and over-dramatized some stuff in my head. Maybe what I remember about you has been skewed by my own inadequacies and my own desperation to believe in my own version of what I saw in your last letter.

But I don't want to believe it. I can't make myself believe it, and I'm scared that if I start believing it, it might come true. It just can't be. It just doesn't seem to make sense.

Ben, please tell me your mother is wrong.

Please tell me you're not Kylo Ren.

_Poe._

* * *

Dear Ben,

I can't keep this up anymore. I started doing this to try to give myself some sense of closure, but then the fact that I could never send these letters to you has just been building up inside me, and it's making me crazy.

You said yourself that you don't blame me. Fine. But I do, for your going away, for what happened at home and to you afterwards, for my own place in this war. You can't stop me. You never said I couldn't put some of this on myself. You just told me not to feel like _you_ were blaming me.

Ben, I'm sorry. Even now, I don't have words. It's been years. You'd think that I would have had the time to think of at least one something to say.

I was devastated when you left. We all were. Yes, I know, I _know_ we weren't great friends or anything, and I _know_ we didn't see too much of each other once your parents sent you to train with Luke, but don't you know I missed you anyway? Don't you remember how we kept each other awake all night that one time when we were fourteen or fifteen? We just curled up on the couch together under a blanket and just had some time to ourselves. I think that was the first time we ever really talked. I'm sorry that it was the only time.

Maybe if we'd had more sleepless nights like that, maybe if we'd talked a little more whenever we were together, maybe if I'd just been a better friend to you, I might have been able to change some of this for the better. Or maybe things would still be the same. You were right when you talked about the infeasibility of "maybe". It really does live in its own galaxy with "someday" and "perhaps" and "I hope so".

I just can't help but feel like I should have seen this coming. Maybe at one point, I did. Maybe I'd put all the pieces together and I didn't like what I saw, so I took them apart again. But now, there's really no going back. You are who you are, and I am who I am. Maybe if you saw me now, I'd be a different person than who you remember, and you might want me to go back to being someone I'm not anymore. I wouldn't want that, and I don't think it's fair for me to wish that on you.

It's just hard to see you as someone whom I've been fighting for the past few years. When I think about it, somehow things make sense. The darkness must have been the First Order. The Supreme Leader must have been Snoke. When you left us to go find answers, maybe you really just left to join the other side of the war.

I don't want to fight you. In fact, I don't want to fight anymore. Flying and fighting used to give me some sort of thrill, but that's mostly gone now. When I take my X-Wing in the air now, I just get this terrible empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it's just because too many people I know have died. I try to make myself go on, but there's only so much I can do. I tell myself that there's nothing else I could be doing right now, that this fight is the right one and I'm on the right side of it.

But then I think about you, and my concentration fails. If someone like you could choose to leave everything behind for this new enemy we have, then what chance could any of us possibly have? You were a good man, Ben. I think you still are, somehow. I don't think a side in a war automatically makes you a good or a bad person. You're following what you believe, and I respect that. I don't have any right to tell you otherwise, and I don't have any right to ask you to change.

I just want you to think a little bit. Times are bad. We both know that. Do you think that your side is doing what it can to make things better? From what I've been told of the First Order, it doesn't seem like the sort of thing that you can really put your faith in. It seems so volatile and dangerous and prone to all sorts of darkness.

You said, in your letter, that you feared the going under, into the darkness, and that you were afraid of this power you had growing inside of you. You said, and I quote, "I don't want to go under again. I don't have anyone who could pull me out if I do."

You were wrong, Ben. You were wrong then, and if you still think that, you're still wrong now. I'm here, and I'll always be here. I don't know how much help or solace I can give you, but I just want you to know that you can always rely on me. I think part of you knows this already – that's why you wrote to me in the first place.

I'm going home, Ben. Just one more mission for your mom on this planet called Jakku, and then I'm putting my resignation in. I'll go home, and I'll wait for you.

You know where to find me.

As always,  
_Poe._


End file.
